Chapter 126 - 5: The Long Standoff — The Northern Line Holds Firm

Chapter 126: Chapter 5: The Long Standoff — The Northern Line Holds Firm

The pre-snow general assault began on the night of the tenth day after the main host pressed down on the border.

There was no fog. The Hittites had chosen a clean, clean night. The moon was big and white, silvering the shoal ground over. Sixty thousand men poured out of the northern camp, like a black river, pressing toward the wall without a sound.

On the tower, three piles of smoke rose almost together with that river.

"General assault!" A-Yan’s voice tore the night open. "The whole line — general assault!"

The gongs rang from the east end to the west. In one instant, the thirty li of wall woke completely and utterly. Torches, arrows, drums — all went up the wall. The moment the drums rose, the black river on the shoal suddenly gave voice — not war cries, but one roar squeezed out at once from sixty thousand men, sixty thousand throats.

On the tower, A-Yan’s hand shook as he lit the smoke.

He had seen twenty thousand horse. When twenty thousand horse press in, the shoal ground trembles. But when sixty thousand men press in, even the sky sinks down with them. When he had lit the three piles, he braced himself on the watch opening’s wooden frame and shouted down: "The whole line! The whole line!" His voice tore ragged; the wind ripped the sound into shreds and blew them into the torches on the wall.

The town below the wall woke too.

Dogs barked, children wept, the women helped the old folk down into the cellars. But weeping was weeping and fluster was fluster, and no one ran wild. The drill learned in the last clearing of the fields still held: the old and weak to the cellars, the able-bodied to the wall, the stoves fired up, the hot water made ready. The tall woman led the Women’s Team in carrying bucket after bucket of hot water up the wall first.

"Stop shaking!" she shouted at a new soldier. "The wall is not shaking. What are you shaking for?"

"Sister," the new soldier said, "sixty thousand men . . ."

"Sixty thousand men — so what?" the woman said. "Their sixty thousand still have to eat, still have to sleep, still have to—" She paused, and pressed a ladle of hot water into the new soldier’s hands. "First warm your own hands. Warm hands, and the bow sits steady."

That roar struck the wall, and the soldiers on it felt the wall under their feet sway once.

"No panic!" The centurions’ voices passed along, section by section. "Every section holds its own place! Sixty thousand of them — they cannot all get on the wall!"

The Hittites’ way of fighting was nothing like the first battle’s.

In the first battle, they had charged with horsemen, filled with earth bags, climbed with ladders. This battle, they used shields. Great shields, taller than a man, three inches thick, drawn up into a wall, pushed forward step by step across the shoal. Behind the shield wall hid the pit-fillers and the stake-choppers, and those six newly made rams — a full size thicker than the first battle’s, their iron-bound heads sheening black in the moonlight.

"They have learned sense." Horenheb stood on the wall’s head and watched a while. "Shields to stop arrows, men to clear the way, rams to break the wall." He paused. "But they do not know that the things behind the wall have changed too."

He swept his hand: "Fire oil, up the wall. Sharp stakes — release."

The shield wall pushed to the middle of the shoal. The fire oil came down from the sky and drenched the shields; one fire arrow, and the shield wall burned into a wall of fire. The Hittites flung their burning shields to the ground, and fresh shields came up behind. But they had forgotten to look at their feet — the sharp stakes were buried right there in the burned black ash. The first row to tread on them knelt down shrieking. The shield wall fell into disorder.

"Shoot!"

The arrow rain poured down. This time, the Hittites did not pull back. They trampled over the fallen and kept coming. At the trench, the pit-fillers rushed out and, under the arrows, hurled earth bags into it. Halfway through the hurling, the wall’s stone-throwing — stone shot slung out on leather cords by the north’s men — smashed into the shield formation. Shields shattered and men fell, but the ones behind still came on to fill.

"Fierce." the northern centurion said. "What has come this time is truly fierce."

"Fierce, and only then is there a fight." Horenheb said. "Pass the word — east section, west section, River-Bend Mouth: as drilled. No one may panic."

The east section was their old ground.

The rams came up. Six rams — four at the east section’s gate, two at the west section’s. Each blow, the dust on the wall rained down. The soldiers behind the gate braced the bar with every ounce of strength they had. But these rams were heavier than the first battle’s. At the seventh blow, the gate bar broke.

"The bar is broken!"

"Change it!" the centurion shouted. "The second bar — up!"

The second bar went up. The ram came again. This time, the soldiers behind the gate took up the work chant. Over a hundred men, over a hundred pairs of feet, braced on the ground, pressing the bar. One blow, one shout. The wall swayed and the men swayed, but no one gave half a step.

The scaling ladders came up too — over thirty of them, all thrown at the east section. The men on the wall pushed, burned, and smashed. On the two platforms jutting from the wall, the archers shot without a moment’s stop. One soldier, his arrows spent, snatched up the stones at hand and hurled them. The stones gone, he flung down even his own water skin.

"Hold back a little!" the old soldier beside him said. "Throw your water skin, and what will you drink?"

"Blood!" The soldier’s eyes were red. "Let the ones below the wall drink their fill first!"

By daylight, the first assault had passed.

On the shoal, the fallen lay every which way. But the Hittites did not withdraw; right there at the shoal ground’s north edge, they lit fires, ate, and fed their horses. When they had eaten, they came on again.

A-Yan on the tower saw a cluster of red among the enemy’s ranks.

"The red cape." He spoke to the old soldier below the tower. "The vanguard general from the first battle — he has come again."

"He has come," the old soldier said, "to settle his account. He memorized our ways — where the pits are, where the stakes are, where the wall is thin. But he does not know the wall is no longer the wall he memorized."

Sure enough, the red cape led his men straight at the east section. Every way he had memorized, he used: first horsemen to wade the pits, then shield men to clear the stakes, last the rams at the gate. But the pits were one foot deeper; the stakes three tenths denser; the gate newly replaced, with three bars braced behind it. His blade rose and fell — and every blow landed on the newly grown wall.

"He is desperate." A-Yan could see it clear from the tower. That cluster of red charged back and forth across the shoal, like a fire that could find no fuel.

"Let him be desperate." the old soldier said. "The desperate man is the first to make a mistake."

At midday, the red cape led his battered men back to their own lines. Crossing the middle of the shoal, he reined in his horse and looked up at the wall once. No one on the wall spoke. But that gaze, across the snow-white shoal ground, crashed into the three thousand pairs of eyes on the thirty li of wall.

The second assault struck River-Bend Mouth.

This time, they did not swim, and set down no small boats. They carried a floating bridge — pieced together from sheepskin rafts, section by section, set down from the north bank and drifting downstream toward the water gate. The rafts were packed with men.

"A floating bridge!" the soldiers at the water gate shouted.

"Good that they come." Old River stood under the water gate, his eyes narrowed. "I was only afraid they would not come by water. This water gate — we have drilled it half a month."

The four barrier chains stretched into four black lines under the moonlight. The floating bridge drifted to the first, and the timber beams under the rafts struck the chain. The rafts lurched, and the men on the river hacked at the chain with their blades. But these four chains were newly changed — oil-soaked hemp cables, twice as thick as the first battle’s. Hack one through, and the rafts struck the second. By the third, the fire-oil arrows came down all at once from the walls on both sides of River-Bend Mouth.

"They burn!"

The river’s face caught fire. The men on the rafts leapt into the water for their lives. But the stakes in the water had long been waiting. On the north bank, Seb led the construction soldiers in dragging the last two raft sections ashore.

"These rafts," Seb said, "taken apart, will do exactly for the tower-top’s boards."

The prisoner taken off the rafts confessed readily. He said the floating bridge was designed by men under the commander-in-chief’s own tent, and was meant to be laid all the way to the water gate in one night. Who knew — four chains, each stouter than the last. The blades they hacked with had all turned their edges.

"Your commander-in-chief," Seb asked, "what else has he prepared?"

The prisoner shrank his neck in. "Just . . . just this. Beyond this, it is filling it with lives."

"Filling it with lives." Seb said. "We will be waiting."

He sent the prisoner behind the wall. On the way back, Old River caught up with him. "Officer, the river’s face is going to freeze. Once it freezes solid, chains and nets alike are good for nothing. Men on horseback can cross straight over the ice."

Seb stopped and looked at the river’s face. Thin ice flowers already floated on it.

"Then break the ice." Seb said. "From nightfall, open it up for one li above and below the water gate. Where it cannot be chipped open, pour water over it so it freezes thin — a man steps on it, and it cracks." He paused. "The water gate is a more dangerous place in winter than in summer. From tomorrow, the water gate’s inspections go to two a day."

"Two a day." Old River answered.

"One more thing," Seb said, "sink that little boat of yours. Leave nothing. The Hittites will neither seize it nor burn it. Come spring, we will fish it up for you."

Old River laughed. "No fishing needed. That boat — I could find it back with my eyes shut."

The next day, they attacked the west section.

The west section was the soft spot Horenheb had kept. Of these thirty li of wall, the west section was oldest, and its footing had already loosened. In the first battle, the west section had sent five hundred men to the east section’s aid and taken a round of feint attack itself, its wall skin peeling in three places. Seb had meant to rebuild the west section in the spring, but before the snow there had been no time. The Hittites had felt it out — and moved every ram to the west section.

From midday to dusk they rammed. The west section’s gate broke. The ram reached in through the gate hole like the tongue of some monstrous beast.

"The gate is broken!"

"Block it!" Horenheb’s voice came crashing down from the wall’s head. "Construction soldiers — up!"

This was the construction soldiers’ first battle.

Mu-A charged up first. He hauled a sack of earth and packed it into the gate hole. Arrows came in through the gate hole and flew past his ears. He did not dodge; he flung the sack down and turned back for a second. Old Da led the North Stockade’s old company in pouring fire oil down, barrel by barrel, on both sides of the gate hole. The construction soldiers, at their fastest, packed the gate hole full of earth bags, stones, and the planks of the torn-down gate.

"Lay brick!" Seb shouted among the crowd. "Lay it as taught! Staggered joints! The interlock!"

Mu-A knelt on the ground and laid brick after brick. His hands shook, but every brick pressed over the joint. By the third course, the war cries beyond the wall suddenly grew distant. The Hittites were finding that the gate hole they had rammed open was closing again, inch by inch.

"This wall," below the wall, a Hittite centurion stared wide-eyed, "grows by itself!"

The west section’s gate hole was sealed. Laid one course thicker than before.

Below the wall, the Hittite horns blew and blew. But the gate hole grew smaller with every ramming. In the end, even the ram could not enter — the earth bags and stone in the gate hole had piled three feet out.

"Pull back!" someone below the wall shouted.

By the time the Hittites fell back, the day had gone dark. Mu-A knelt by the gate hole, both hands bloody. All ten of his fingers were split open. But looking at that newly laid wall, he broke into a grin.

"Officer," he said, "not one brick of mine fell."

"Not one." Seb said. He crouched and looked it over, brick by brick. "This wall — I will put a mark on the courses you laid. The men who come after will know this wall was raised by Mu-A of the construction soldiers, in the nights before the snow."

Mu-A opened his mouth, and no words came out. Under the torches, his eyes shone frighteningly bright.

In the medical point, that night, the work rose again.

The west section’s wounded were carried in one after another. The old army physician and his six apprentices never touched ground. One wounded man, his arm broken, sweating with pain, said through clenched teeth: "Old master, save the men on the wall first. This arm of mine can still wait."

"Wait for what." the old army physician said. "An arm is worth more than a wall. A wall fallen can be relaid; an arm gone, and what will you grip a spear with?" He scolded as he bound the wounds. "All of you, lie down. Not one of you may move."

The medical point’s lamp burned all night. The snow came down while that lamp was still burning.

That night, the snow came down.

The first few flakes, no one noticed. Mid-battle, someone felt a chill on his face. He looked up — the sky was coming down white. First a speck and a dot, then thick. The snow fell on the shoal, on the blood, on the broken spears and bent shields, flake by flake, whitening everything over.

"Snow!" someone on the wall shouted.

"Snow!" The sound passed east to west, wall to tower, tower to town. The thirty li of wall went quiet with the sound, little by little.

The Hittites were watching the snow too.

Their horses’ hooves sank in the snow, snorting. Their grain was half burned, half hauled, and what remained was half buried by the snow. Their commander-in-chief stood on the earth slope to the north and watched a long time. No one knew what he was thinking. In the end, he waved his hand.

That great crooked banner began to move north.

The snow fell heavier and heavier. The dead on the shoal were half buried. The broken spears, bent shields, scaling ladders, and trap carts showed their black points through the snow, like a stretch of rubble frozen hard.

The Hittite camp withdrew extremely slow. The wounded were carried, the dead horses dragged, and the grain carts pressed deep ruts into the snow. Men slipped and fell in the snow, scrambled up, and walked on. Sixty thousand men — a black river when they came, a broken, gap-toothed stream when they went.

The commander-in-chief’s great banner was the last to move. On the earth slope, that flag hung its head under the snow’s weight. Someone saw the commander-in-chief, on horseback, turn and look back once toward the wall. Through twenty li of snow, no one knew what he saw.

"He is memorizing." Horenheb said. "Like that red cape. Memorizing this wall, this snow, the six thousand men he left here." He paused. "Let him memorize. A man who memorizes must first stay alive, to carry the account back north."

The snow fell three days and three nights.

On the fourth morning, the sky opened. The thirty li of wall lay under half a foot of snow, white to the point of dazzling. The soldiers took turns coming down off the wall to sweep snow, heap snowmen, and fight snow battles. A few young soldiers rolled a great snowball and pushed it down the wall; it rolled far out and burst on the shoal.

"Enough of that!" the centurion scolded, laughing. "The Hittite scouts will see it and think some new weapon has appeared on our wall."

"All the better!" the soldiers shouted. "Scare them to death!"

The laughter rolled far along the snow-covered wall. It was the first time this winter that the wall had rung with laughter this bright.

"They have fallen back." the northern centurion said. His voice was hoarse beyond all shape.

"Fallen back." Horenheb said. He stood on the wall’s head, the snow half an inch thick on his shoulders, motionless, watching. Watching sixty thousand men sink, little by little, into the whiteness of the north.

"General," Seb climbed up and held out a flatbread, "eat something hot."

Horenheb took the flatbread and did not eat. He looked down the wall and suddenly asked: "The west section’s gate hole — who laid it?"

"Construction soldiers." Seb said. "The leader is called Mu-A."

"Mu-A." Horenheb said. "Reward. Record the merit. Tomorrow, on the wall, I will praise him with my own mouth."

The snow fell all night.

The next day, the soldiers swept the snow aside and went on mending the wall. The west section’s gate hole got a new gate. This gate was double-layered, with a sheet of oil-soaked oxhide between. Seb watched the new gate go up. "Next time," he said, "they will need a ram twice this thick."

"Next time," Horenheb said, "they will not come."

"Not come?"

The next day, Horenheb did go up the wall.

He called over all the soldiers on duty at the west section. Mu-A stood in the very front, his two cloth-bound hands twisting together, awkward.

"All of you, look at these hands." Horenheb said. "These hands, the night before last, laid a gate back from nothing." He paused. "Where did the sixty thousand men’s general assault lose? Right there — on hands like these. The wall broke, and he patched it. Patched it thicker than before. The Hittite ram struck in and struck out, and could not strike open that one course of freshly laid brick."

He walked up before Mu-A. "Your name is Mu-A."

"Answering the general — yes."

"From today, you are a file leader of the construction soldiers." Horenheb said. "You will bring ten men. The wall you laid stands over the gate. The soldiers you bring must stand on that wall too."

"I . . ." Mu-A’s lips trembled. "I fear I will not lead them well."

"Fear it, then drill more." Horenheb said. "The construction soldiers’ first file leader cannot be a coward." He clapped Mu-A on the shoulder, solid and firm. "What you lay is not a wall. It is the north’s life."

The whole wall’s soldiers looked at Mu-A. Mu-A straightened his back bolt upright. His cloth-bound hands hung at his sides, clenched into two fists.

"The snow has fallen through." Horenheb said. "The north’s grass is buried. Their horses have no grass. Their men have no grain." He looked north. "This winter, they cannot fight. When spring opens and they come again, our wall will have grown one winter thicker."

After the snow stopped, Seb went over the third line’s plans again, from the top.

He corrected them point by point against the real fighting: the west section’s rebuild, set as the first task of spring; the two platforms’ firing positions, each shifted half a foot — on the day of the general assault, the west side’s fire had still been one thread thin; the River-Bend Mouth chains, marked "inspect every ten days"; the sharp-stake field on the shoal, extended fifty paces outward.

"These plans," he said to his four apprentices, "are corrected once for every battle. Corrected until when? Until there is no next battle."

"Master," the eldest apprentice said, "have the Hittites not fallen back?"

"Fallen back, and still there." Seb said. "Twenty li away, sixty thousand men, watching us every day." He pointed at the plans. "They are memorizing too. Every inch we change must grow onto the wall before their next move."

The corrected plans, Seb copied out three times. One set stayed at the wall, one went to the main camp, and one would go back with the boats to the new capital’s construction archive.

"Officer," the northern centurion asked, "the plans have been corrected eight times over — is there still more to correct?"

"There is." Seb said. "While the wall lives, the plans live." He paused. "My teacher drew the west line’s towers three years. The north’s wall, I must draw three years too. And after those three years, three more."

Sure enough, the Hittites did not come again.

They pitched their great camp twenty li beyond the wall. This time it was no attack camp, but a holding camp. Outside it they dug a moat, raised a palisade, and heaped up an earth wall. The scouts came back to report that the Hittites, copying our own ways, were building works too.

"Good." Horenheb said. "They build, and we build. We will see who builds faster."

"General," the northern centurion said, "they mean to wear this out long against us."

"Wear it long." Horenheb said. "Then wear it. The north’s winter is ours. The wall is ours too. Every day they wear, their grain runs one day short. Every day we wear, our wall grows one day thick." He paused. "This trade — we win it whichever way."

On a night before spring, Horenheb called Seb, the northern centurion, and Old Da into the tent and drank a pot of hot water with them.

"There is something," he said, "I have sent up a memorial."

"What memorial has the general sent up?" the northern centurion asked.

"A plea to hold the north border for life." Horenheb said.

The tent went quiet. The charcoal in the brazier popped — pa.

"General," the northern centurion said, "you . . . are not going back?"

"Back where?" Horenheb said. "The west line has its old squad leader. Thebes has its old centurion. A man like me, from the west line to the north line, has held the border half a life. Now the north’s wall is raised. The towers are raised. The law is raised too." He paused. "Go back, and I would be thinking of this place all the same. Better to stay. Staying, I can sleep a sound sleep at night."

"But your family . . ." Seb said.

"Family?" Horenheb lifted the bowl and drank a mouthful of water. "My son lost a leg, on the west line. The west line is his home. My life, I have set down in the north. The north is my home." He set the bowl down. "For a soldier, wherever he holds is home. The west line’s old soldiers all understand that truth."

Outside the tent, the wind ran over the snow plain, moaning. The three men said nothing more. The pot of hot water was drunk to the bottom, mouthful by mouthful.

The northern standoff stiffened into place, just so.

The men of both sides watched each other across twenty li of snow plain. Neither side’s scouts dared cross the middle line. Now and then, Hittite roving riders circled outside the wall, and the men on the wall did not shoot — only watched. Watched them huddle small with cold in the snow.

The winter on the wall was lived by Seb’s rules.

Braziers, one every fifty paces, the charcoal issued by the court. Fur coats, one to a man, sheepskin-lined, sewn by the Women’s Team through the nights before the freeze. The crenels hung with straw curtains — against the strong wind, something to hold it back. The watchmen changed every four hours, and a man coming down from the wall did one thing first: drink hot water.

"These days," one old soldier said, "are more comfortable than wintering at home."

"Comfortable?" the soldier beside him said. "That wind at night could blow your ears off."

"Ears off, and there is still hot water." the old soldier said. "Think of those Hittites in the north. What do they have? Snow. Under the snow, hunger. Under the hunger, a home they cannot get back to." He paused. "Beside them, this place of ours is heaven."

On the tower’s morning, A-Yan led his two new soldiers to watch the sunrise.

The north’s sunrise rolled up over the snow plain. First a golden line, then half the sky caught fire. The two new soldiers stared, eyes wide. A-Yan passed over the grass paper. "Draw."

"Draw . . . draw the sunrise?" a new soldier said.

"Draw the north." A-Yan said. "Where the snow has thinned, where there are hoofprints, where the campfires sit denser than yesterday." He pointed at the snow plain. "At sunrise, the snow is brightest. Snow bright, and the things on the ground cannot hide."

The two new soldiers lay down and drew. Their drawings came out crooked and unsteady. A-Yan looked them over one by one. "Draw again tomorrow." he said. "A tower’s eyes are trained just so. My first time, I drew worse than you."

"Brother A-Yan," a new soldier asked, "do you miss home?"

A-Yan thought it over. "I do." he said. "I miss the craft school in the new capital. I miss my fellow apprentices. I miss the teacher." He paused. "But the north’s towers must be held by someone. I am on the tower, and home is at the tower’s foot."

The wind came from the north and set the tower’s flag clapping. The three young men stood side by side at the watch opening, looking north. On the snow plain, that stretch of campfires faded in the morning light to one smear of gray.

On the Hittite side, the days were another sight.

The scouts reported back: three tenths of their horses had frozen to death. Those not frozen were thin to the skeleton. The men in the camp ate one thin meal a day. Some bold Hittite stragglers crept to the shoal beyond the wall at night, dug the snow open, and tried to grub up grass roots. The soldiers on the wall saw them and did not shoot. One man even flung down half a flatbread.

"Are you mad?" someone cursed the bread-flinger.

"Let him eat." the bread-flinger said. "A captive who has eaten his fill will go back and tell his comrades — the people behind the wall eat flatbread at every meal." He paused. "That word works better than arrows."

Seb heard of it and said nothing. The next day, he had men scatter a handful of broken wheat on the shoal, a stretch at a time. Not much — just so the snow ground had something in it to find.

"General," the northern centurion asked, "what rule is this?"

"No rule." Seb said. "Only to let them know the north’s land can feed its people. Wearing it out against us until spring — the ones who starve will be themselves."

"They are hungry." an old soldier on the wall said. "A hungry man’s eyes go green. Look at those horses — their bellies are sunken to nothing."

"Let them hunger." the soldier beside him said. "They hunger theirs. Our grain is pressed full."

The grain was indeed full.

The wounded storehouse clerk walked these days with wind in his step. Old Camel’s fleet had delivered the last three trips of grain before the freeze closed in. The town’s storehouse behind the wall was stacked to the top. Seb also led the construction soldiers in digging three new grain cellars behind the wall. The cellars were dug deep, where the winter could not freeze them solid, and the grain brought out in spring would still be good.

"This grain," the wounded storehouse clerk said, "will last into spring, with three tenths left over." He walked circles at the storehouse door on his crutch. "Half a life of keeping storehouses, and the first time I have seen one with grain to spare."

"Spare is good." the old army physician said. "With something spare, the heart does not panic."

In the medical point, the wounded healed, one after another. In that battle at the west section’s gate hole, forty-seven were hurt, all light wounds. The old army physician went through the dressings one by one with his six new apprentices. Those six lads now bound wounds with steady hands.

The medical point’s lamp oil never ran out that winter. The oil was pooled household by household by the town behind the wall. The fellow who brought it said: "The north’s winter nights are long. The medical point’s lamp lights the road for the wounded. This oil, kept in our house, would never burn that bright."

The old army physician entered it in the ledger. His medical ledger had now grown half an inch thick. Which day, which medicine used, how many men saved — all written out clear. "This ledger," he said, "will go into the construction archive one day. It will sit on the same shelf as Officer Seb’s plans. The wall’s ledger and the physician’s ledger — both bought with the north’s lives."

The grain storehouse’s walls had been thickened by one more layer before winter. The wounded storehouse clerk said it was built after the Ever-Normal Granary’s method. The walls half a foot thicker, the door hung with a straw curtain. Of the grain inside, less than half a tenth spoiled through the whole winter.

"Half a tenth," he said, "in the old days, I would not have dared dream it. In the old days, a northern storehouse lost three tenths over one winter." He walked the storehouse on his crutch. "This method saves more grain than men."

"Old master," Mu-A also came for a change of dressing. Laying brick, his hands had been cut by the bricks’ edges. "These hands of mine must be kept for more bricklaying."

"Rest easy." the old army physician said. "Your life is now worth more than the wall. The general says he will praise you with his own mouth."

"Praise me?" Mu-A’s face went red. "I . . . I only laid a few bricks the way the Officer taught . . ."

"A few bricks," the old army physician said, "sealed a gate." He finished binding Mu-A’s hands. "Go on. The wall is waiting for you to lay more."

On one clear day before spring, Old Da came to Horenheb and asked a day’s leave.

"General," he said, "the North Stockade’s smoke should be lit."

Horenheb said nothing. He granted the leave, and had men prepare for Old Da a horse, a small sack of journey food, and one flask of wine.

"Wine," Old Da said, "General, the North Stockade’s rule is no drinking."

"Rules are set by men." Horenheb said. "Those one hundred and twenty men deserve one flask of wine."

Old Da took A-Song and the North Stockade’s remaining fifty-seven men, went out the wall, and walked north.

The snow had not fully thawed. The North Stockade’s ruins showed half a wall’s head above the snow. The flags were long gone, and the wall holes gaped black, like mouths. Outside the stockade, Old Da found a high slope, and stacked three piles of dry grass neat.

"Light." he said.

The three piles of smoke rose.

The blue-gray smoke shot straight up at the sky. The north wind blew it apart, and it gathered again. The fifty-eight men knelt down facing the stockade. Old Da poured the wine over the snow. The wine soaked into the snow, and on the white ground, dark stains spread, one by one.

"One hundred and twenty," Old Da said, "fifty-odd came back. Those who did not are all here, watching us." He paused. "The North Stockade’s smoke is lit again. This time, it is the smoke of peace. One smoke — peace."

"One smoke — peace." the fifty-eight men said together.

A-Song straightened up and looked at the stockade. "Squad leader," he said suddenly, "come spring, let us come back and mend the stockade. Raise the wall again — half a foot higher than before."

"Mend it." Old Da said. "Officer Seb promised us the plans. The construction soldiers’ work — the North Stockade has its share."

"Then this stockade," A-Song said, "will it still be called the North Stockade?"

"It will." Old Da said. "While the stockade stands, the name stands. The wall falls, and it is raised again. The men pass, and the young ones carry on. Those two words, North Stockade, are a stake driven into the north." He clapped A-Song on the shoulder. "The day it is raised, you will be the first up the wall."

"I will be first." A-Song said.

On the road back, the sky drifted snow again. The North Stockade’s smoke had scattered. Yet every man felt those three piles of smoke still burning in his heart.

Passing the North Stockade’s ruins, A-Song suddenly reined in his horse.

"Squad leader," he said, "I want to stay a while longer."

Old Da nodded. The fifty-eight men dismounted in the snow. A-Song walked to the stockade gate — the gate was long gone. He stood where the gate had been and looked in. At the wall’s foot, half a charred flagpole lay under the snow, a stretch of black showing.

"Here," A-Song said, "is where the smoke was lit."

He crouched, scraped the snow aside, and felt the burned ground. The earth was frozen, hard as board. He stacked the dry grass in his hand into three small piles again — unlit, just stacked.

"Wait for spring." he said. "When spring opens, I will raise the wall. The day the wall rises, I will light three piles of smoke again. One pile, for the North Stockade of the past. One pile, for the uncles who died. One pile, for the North Stockade to come."

Old Da stood behind him, the snow falling all over him. "Light them." he said. "When the time comes, the whole stockade’s people will come back to light them."

The fifty-eight men swung back onto their horses. The snow filled in the hoofprints, one by one.

Before spring, Seb called A-Song into the tent.

"I have seen your work." Seb said. "At learning the craft, you are first of the lot. At watching smoke, you have good eyes." He paused. "Deputy section chief of the east section’s third stretch — will you take it?"

"Deputy section chief?" A-Song stood dumb. "I . . . I am young."

"Young is exactly when more weight should be piled on." Seb said. "Old Da told me you want to go back to the North Stockade and raise the wall again." He paused. "To raise a wall, first you must have charge of one. One year of charge on the wall beats three years of practice on the slope."

A-Song stood a long while without speaking. In the end he straightened his back. "I will!"

"Good." Seb said. "The third stretch — one hundred and twenty paces. You follow the section chief: first watch, then learn, then take charge. In spring, I will examine you. Pass, and the section chief’s post is yours."

"And if I do not pass?" A-Song asked.

"Do not pass," Seb said, "and you take it again." He laughed. "My teacher examined me just so, back in the day."

Thirty li behind the wall, the frontier farming got moving before spring.

It was not Seb’s idea; Horenheb raised it at the military council: "Soldiers cannot do nothing but eat grain. The north’s land lies waste as it lies. Break it open and plant wheat. This time next year, the north’s soldiers eat the north’s grain."

"General," the northern centurion said, "farming, and the drill suffers — what then?"

"Farm in turns." Horenheb said. "One shift drills, one shift farms. The cold — the drillers run themselves warm, and the farmers dig the earth warm." He paused. "The west line’s old soldiers came through their winters just so. Men cannot sit idle. Idle, and the heart scatters."

On the first day of breaking ground, Seb went to look.

Behind the wall lay a stretch of gentle slope, the earth black, a handful squeezed out oil. He crouched, dug a little, and said: "Good land. Three years unplanted — fat with it." He looked up. "This ground, broken open, will yield three dan to the mu."

"Officer," an old soldier said, "you know farming too?"

"My pa was a farmer." Seb said. "He was taken for the forced levy and died on the post road. The land lay waste." He clapped the earth off his hands and stood up. "Now this law — no levies in the busy season. The north’s land will not lie waste again."

The old soldiers said nothing. The spades went down, the frozen earth cracked open, and the black beneath showed through. That blackness steamed in the sun that followed the snow.

Seb drew a line on the slope. "Here, dig one channel. The snowmelt comes down and runs the channel to water the fields. On both sides of the channel, plant wheat." He marked it on the plan. "Come spring, this slope will be green."

"Green." The old soldiers murmured it, and swung their spades the faster.

The seed came up before spring on the merchant house’s boats.

Old Camel himself escorted the boats. Reaching the north bank at River-Bend Mouth, they unloaded a few dozen sacks, all wheat seed. "The merchant house’s grain feeds the north’s people," Old Camel said. "This seed plants the north’s land. The Chief Builder said — the north is breaking ground, and not one grain of old seed may be mixed in."

"Master Lu," Seb asked, "what else did he say?"

"He said," Old Camel laughed, "’the land does not cheat people. Treat the land well, and the land treats you well. The north’s land is fat. The seed you sow will pay you back a whole slope of green.’" He patted the sacks. "He also said, come spring, he will come see the land you have farmed."

"The teacher is coming to see it?" Seb’s eyes lit up.

"He is." Old Camel said. "His own words — ’I have not yet looked over the north’s towers, one by one.’"

The Mountain-Pass forts also broke ground in the snow.

Two forts, sealing the mountain passes — the third line’s last piece. By the time Seb sent the plans to the pass, the snow had already fallen three times. The craftsmen, in fur caps, breathing white, laid the stone base into the frozen earth, block by block. Each course laid, the joints were poured with grass ash mixed into lime. "These forts," Seb said, "built slow, no fear. What is to be feared is built loose. The mountain pass is the northern border’s back door. A back door not firm, and all the wall before it is held for nothing."

"Officer," the old master leading the crew said, "one year. This time next year, the forts can take men."

"One year." Seb said. "I will wait. When they stand, the northern border’s depth — the three lines — will be complete."

Spring opened, and the river opened with it.

The ice drifted downstream, block by block. Old River’s little boat was fished up from the river bottom. The gunwales were hung with a whole winter’s waterweed. Old River took a brush and scoured the boat clean, then brushed on one coat of tung oil.

"There." He patted the gunwale. "As good as new."

"Grandpa," Little River said, "will you still fish with it?"

"Fish." Old River said. "And patrol the water gate with it." He beckoned Little River aboard. "Today, you take the pole. First time — I will take you through one round of the water gate’s inspection."

The little boat left the bank. Little River poled, his arms without the strength for it, and the boat spun in the water. Old River said nothing, only sat at the stern and watched.

"One pole to the left, steady it." Old River said.

Little River did as told. The boat slowly straightened.

"See it?" Old River said. "Poling a boat and holding a gate are one truth. No hurrying. The more you hurry, the more the boat spins. The heart steady, and the boat steadies."

The little boat made one circle close along the water gate. Four cables, two stakes, two nets — Little River reported each in turn. Old River listened and nodded. When the boat came to shore, he said: "Tomorrow, you go alone."

"Alone?" Little River’s eyes went wide.

"Alone." Old River said. "At your age, I was already on the river by myself." He paused. "The water gate is yours, sooner or later. A day early, a day late — you must pole yourself across to it."

The next day, Little River truly poled the boat alone through the water gate’s inspection. Coming back, he stood a long while on the bank, then suddenly shouted toward the house: "Grandpa! Cables, stakes, nets — every one in place!"

Old River laughed inside the house. The laughter drifted far along the river’s face.

The old master rubbed his hands together and looked north once. The mountain pass lay white in the snow. Farther north, the Hittite campfires jumped and jumped in the snow night, like a few eyes that would not close.

"Complete," the old master said, "and the north will be truly steady."

Before spring, Seb wrote his teacher a second letter.

The letter held only a few lines:

"Teacher: The snow has fallen. The Hittites have pulled back and camped on the far bank. This winter, they cannot fight their way over. The north’s soldiers are half on the wall and half on the slope. The wall grows thicker the more it is mended; the slope grows fatter the more it is broken. The northern border is steady. I want to stay here. Not to leave. You always said the towers must have men to hold them, and the wall must have men to watch it. I want to be that man who holds and watches. Seb."

The day after the letter arrived, Lu Zhu’s answer came with the boats.

The answer was shorter still:

"Stay. With you in the north, the teacher’s heart is easy. The towers you draw stand on the northern border. The wall you hold shields a whole country. Come spring, I will come see you. And one more thing — go on drawing your plans. Not one sheet may be missing."

Seb read the letter three times, folded it, and tucked it into his coat. He walked out the door and stood at the wall’s foot, looking south. The southern sky was blue to the point of shining through. He suddenly felt that the letter in his coat was like a coal tucked against his chest, warm through and through.

That same letter, when it reached the new capital, was read by Lu Zhu first.

When he had read it, he stood in the courtyard a long while. That day the new capital’s wind was light. The old tree in the courtyard had put out the faintest buds.

"Hapy." he said suddenly.

"Teacher."

"Tell me," Lu Zhu said, "the north’s wall, towers, and law have all found their keepers now. The affairs of this courtyard — should they not also be handed to people who can keep them?"

Hapy did not understand. "Teacher, what are you saying?"

"Nothing." Lu Zhu said. He looked at the northern sky, very blue, blue enough to light a man’s thoughts out. "Only that I suddenly feel it is time to go."

"Go?" Hapy grew urgent. "Teacher, where would you go?"

"Do not be hasty." Lu Zhu said. "Nothing is settled." He clapped Hapy on the shoulder. "First help me get the chest out. That rattan one — underneath, the old one."

Hapy answered and went to get it. In his heart, he dimly felt something great was coming.

Lu Zhu went back to his room alone. From under the pillow he drew out a roll of old paper — the building manuscripts found many years ago in that ruined shrine on the West Bank. The corners of the paper were worn soft. He rubbed them a while, and put it back where it had been.

Then he walked to the desk, spread out a fresh sheet, and lifted the brush.

The brush hung over the paper a long time and did not fall. Outside the window, the wind passed lightly. The courtyard’s old tree rustled in the night.

Some words still had to wait. Wait for the right moment.

Horenheb’s memorial went up at this time too.

The memorial held one line only:

"This servant begs to hold the north border for life."

The pharaoh’s answer was shorter than the memorial: "Granted."

It was said that when the war ministry received the memorial, the three old generals passed it around and read it. The eldest set it back on the desk. "This man," he said, "if the north wants him, the throne has given him. If the north does not want him, he must be in the north all the same." He paused. "The country’s gate, placed in his hands, is the northern border’s people’s good fortune."

The pharaoh’s answer reached the northern border.

Not one line. A full scroll of formal edict, and besides it a newly cast seal. The seal was not large, of bronze, carved with a wall, and behind the wall a spear. The edict read:

"Horenheb has held the north for years: the first battle broke the enemy, the second battle turned their host back. Now he begs to hold the north border for life, and I commend his will. He is specially appointed Warden of the Northern Border, with command over the border wall, the second line, and the frontier-farming soldiers and people, this seal as his warrant. Grain, material, medicine, and labor are allotted him as before. The people of the northern border are all his soldiers and people."

The one reading the edict was again that Royal Steward. When he had read it, he put the seal into Horenheb’s hands. Horenheb took the seal, turned it over, and looked at the wall carved in the bronze.

"Steward," he said, "answer the pharaoh for me. Say this — the seal, I have taken it. The wall carved on it, I will hold. The spear carved on it, I will hold too."

"This servant will surely carry it." the Steward said. "The pharaoh has one more word for me to say alone — ’With him in the north, I can sleep.’"

Horenheb said nothing. He wrapped the seal in an old cloth and tucked it into his coat. The old cloth was one he had brought from the west line, washed white, its corners worn to fuzz.

That night, he set the seal in offering at the head of the war tent’s table. On the table also lay the bronze tag of the Mountain-Pass Fort’s centurion. Seal and tag, set side by side. Under the lamp, both things sat heavy.

Spring opened, and the first rain came down.

The rain fell on the wall and washed a whole winter’s snow away. The soldiers below the wall stood in the rain, faces lifted. Someone said: "This rain is sweet."

"The north’s rain is always sweet." the old soldier beside him said. "Because the wall has kept all the bitterness on the north side."

The town behind the wall — the people coming back grew more and more.

The old woman who had locked her door and gone south came back. She stood at the door and looked a long while. "The door is still locked," she said. "But this heart of mine unlocked long ago." She opened the door and had her son set up the pot. "Boil water. Today, I will steam a pot of fresh flatbread for the men on the wall."

The old hunter came back too. He led a half-grown sheep to the lane’s mouth. "This sheep was dropped in the south," he said. "I brought it back to raise. Come autumn, when it is grown, the soldiers on the wall will have one bowl of hot soup each."

"Uncle," a lad said, "is the north truly done fighting?"

"They fight." the old hunter said. "Twenty li away, they are still crouching there." He looked north once. "But fight or no fight, life must be lived. With the wall, the towers, and you all — life cannot fall down." He tied the sheep at the door. "We came back, and we live it steady. The north’s land must not lie waste."

The miller came back too. He pulled the cloth out of the mill’s eye and swept the millstone. "This mill sat idle a whole winter," he said, "its voice has gone hoarse." He pushed the mill handle, and the stone turned with a creak. "When the new wheat comes down, this mill will spin itself dizzy."

The blacksmith’s forge burned again. The first firing forged no blades, but plowshares. "Blades, the wall has plenty," he said. "Plowshares, the fields lack." He struck the red iron into the water — sss — and white steam leapt up. "In the north from now on, the iron is forged for the fields first."

The sheep-herding border man drove his flock back onto the slope. The sheep ate grass roots on the slope while he dug the channel below it. Someone laughed at him: "Are you herding sheep, or digging channels?"

"Both." the herder said. "The sheep eat the slope’s grass, and the slope drinks the channel’s water. Next year, the grass fat, and the sheep fat with it." He pointed north. "The wall keeps the wolves out — so a man cannot be allowed to live his days a little finer?"

The town’s chimneys sent up smoke, one household after another. The smoke rose fine and straight, thread after thread against the northern border’s blue sky, like marks of peace stamped on that sky.

The day the rain stopped, Seb went up the wall.

He walked the thirty li of wall through. The wall was dry, the joints firm, the crenels even. The thirty section chiefs followed him, looking stretch by stretch. At the patched gate hole in the west section, Mu-A stepped out: "Officer, this gate — I laid it. Inspect it."

Seb crouched and ran his hand over the gate hole, top to bottom.

"The joints bite tight." he said. "The bricks press firm." He stood up. "Good. This gate is sturdier than the old one."

Mu-A’s face bloomed into a flower of a smile.

"All of you saw it?" Seb said to the section chiefs. "This is a gate laid by our own people. From now on, every inch of this wall must be of this same making."

"Yes!" the section chiefs answered.

Horenheb went up the wall too. He stood at the highest point and looked north. The northern snow plain lay white and vast. Twenty li away, the Hittite campfires still jumped. The wind came from the north, carrying the breath of snow and that familiar smell of horse sweat.

"General," Seb walked up beside him, "do you think they will come again?"

"They will." Horenheb said. "The grass greens, the horses fatten, and they will come." He paused. "But by then, our wall will have grown one winter thicker. The towers will be several more. The soldiers will know several more skills." He looked north, his voice not loud, but steady as the wall under his feet. "Let them come. The northern sky will not fall."

Seb nodded. He followed Horenheb’s gaze north. At the snow plain’s end, that stretch of campfires lay like a snake frozen stiff, stretched along the northern horizon.

And behind them, on the slope behind the wall, the first wheat seed had already gone into the ground.

That earth was black. That seed was full. When the snow melts, when the grass greens, when the north wind rises again, that slope will come up in one stretch of green. Green-gleaming wheat, growing behind the wall, growing under the wall-keepers’ very eyes — that is the northern border’s other wall, a wall that will sprout, that will ear, that will grow itself out, year after year.

The snow melted. On the northern horizon, the Hittite campfires still burned, jumping. Like a hungry snake, coiled at the far end of the snow plain, waiting for the grass to green. And behind the wall, the wheat seed had gone into the ground. The wall-keepers were half on the wall and half on the slope. They knew there would still be battles after spring opened. But they knew too that this wall no longer feared a fight — it had people to feed it, a law to shield it, and generation after generation learning to lay it higher and thicker. The northern border’s sky was blue to the point of shining. The wind came from the south, and it carried one piece of news: in the new capital, someone was packing, about to go to the banks of the Nile.

(End of Chapter 5)